


Spies Like Us

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newly returned to England after several years spent fighting for King and Country, Killian Jones' reputation as an inveterate rake and seducer of innocent women precedes him. Lady Emma, future Duchess-in-her-own-right, remembers him well, but something about him makes her wonder if he is, perhaps, more than he seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally a prompt ("jawline kiss") and written on a whim, i decided i wanted to read more about this, so i posted a follow-up and now, here we are, posting on ao3. hello.

"My _Lord_ ,” she breathed, glancing about the ballroom, hoping no one had noticed, much less her mother. The second son of the Earl of Darling had pulled her into a shadowy alcove, and while she knew she ought insist he take her back, that recklessness the Nolans were known for asserted itself, telling her that she could trust this handsome man, this inveterate rake. Lady Emma, only daughter of the Duke of Storybrooke, rarely trusted anyone, but something inside was tugging at her good sense, telling her that this man would not disappoint her. Not like him. She shook away thoughts of Lord Neal, ignored the mental image of his easy smiles and teasing ways to focus on the man who was currently staring at her, his eyes dancing, his fingers playing with the tendrils of hair that had once again managed to escape the carefully arranged curls of her coiffure.

  
"Yes, my Lady?" he murmured, and Emma had to wonder how a man could come to be this way, so flirtatious and confident. She had heard the stories, of course; how he was an eternal source of disappointment to his father, how his brother was constantly coming to his rescue when he ended up in another scrape. Emma could remember her first season, how the Jones brothers had entered the ballroom of Lady Aurora’s birthday soiree; how there was a collective feminine gasp, fans fluttering and men rolling their eyes in consternation and annoyance. Both wearing uniforms and identical grins, Liam the heir with his eyes crinkled in delight and Killian the spare with one corner of his mouth quirked in a knowing smirk.

  
"I’ll take the elder," her friend Ruby murmured, and Emma knew that if the two were not betrothed by the end of the season, then it was not for wont of trying.

  
"I like the look of the younger," declared Lady Tink, linking her arms with Ruby and Emma as they circled the room. "I think I shall have to wrangle an invitation from my father. Come."  
The young ladies did, indeed, meet the Jones boys that evening, and even danced with them. But not Emma. Her father had sensed mischief with the three and intervened, his careful eyes forever watchful for Emma’s entire first season.

  
Father seemed disinclined to allow his daughter a dance with either of the Jones boys, despite the elder’s glowing reputation in service of his majesty during the Peninsular War. Killian (such a frisson of delight every time she thought of his name! It was such a singular name, unusual, almost plebeian, but the way it had rolled off his tongue as he bent over her hand, murmuring that it was a _pleasure_ —perhaps it was the remembrance of his pronunciation of “pleasure” that caused the shiver now!), also heralded for his part in the war, had a reputation for playing fast and loose with the ladies, although Emma could not track down a single name associated with his. She thought that maybe rumor and his unjustly beautiful face caused the tongues of the ton to wag is disapprobation. She decided back then in her first season to give the man a fair shot, and if it were due to the way his eyes would sparkle at hers whenever she sought him out across a crowded ballroom, well. That was her business.

  
But then the Little Tyrant had decided to stage a return, and the Jones boys disappeared back in to the hell of war (“don’t say ‘hell,’ Emma!”), and three years passed.  
Emma decided by then that she was firmly on the shelf, never destined to marry. That the parade of men dancing before her were too boring or too old or too…too damned _boring_ for her to form any sort of attachment, much less consider marriage.

  
She told herself she was not waiting for a man with flashing eyes of blue and a teasing grin.

  
She told herself she was not constantly combing her father’s paper, looking for news of lost naval battles.

  
She told herself that now that the war had ended and a year had passed that he ought to be home, and where was he, dammit?

  
And then— _just_ when Lady Emma Nolan had decided to hang it all and simply enjoy her life as a spinster, he returned.

  
At first, she was going to feign ignorance of the fact. He was merely a handsome man and seemed a delightful dance partner, the type who moved without thought while raillery flew from his lips. The type who still tried to entice the Lady Emma(’s rumored massive fortune upon marriage). She was older now, and immune to such charms. She could simply enjoy them, enjoy him and men like him, then return to her life and her passions.

  
Yes, Lady Emma told herself these things when she entered the ballroom, once again to celebrate the birthday of the Lady Aurora.

  
But that was before she found herself whisked into a waltz, the tutting of the old biddies and the raised eyebrows of the men focused all on Emma and Killian, war hero-turned-who-knew, missing from polite society for years and only now returned.

  
And now that he had managed to pull her into a curtained alcove without her having realized his intentions, she knew she ought to protest but strangely, found she simply did not want to to leave.

  
"Lady Emma," he chuckled, and the sound of it was so delightful and warm that she smiled in response despite the furrow in her brow. "Do not think so hard; you’ll tire yourself out before I have a chance to do so myself."

  
Emma gasped in feigned outrage, secretly thrilled at his words. Is this what it was like to play fast and loose? How delightful.

  
"You’re a blackguard, and I wish for you to return me to the ballroom immediately." Her tone was firm and she was proud of herself for that, for stilling the tremor she was feeling from her neck on downward.

  
"Do you, now? Your frequent glances at me contradict that sentiment," he said, and when she turned to refute it was to discover his nearness, that he was mere inches from her, his eyes regarding her with a sudden ferocity that was not there a mere moment ago. Emma could feel a question bubbling up her throat—why he seemed so serious, perhaps, or why had she never before noticed that his eyes were not merely blue but several gradations of blue-to-grey, or where had he been all these years, or why did he choose her for the waltz when she was a spinster with an independent streak and a terror of a father, or why—

  
He stepped in closer, the lapels of his coat brushing against her bare shoulder. Her breathing hitched and increased in tempo as he leaned in, and she wondered then if he was going to steal a kiss from her (and then she wondered if one could truly steal something freely given), but then his lips were brushing against her ear.

  
"We’re being watched," he whispered, very softly, so quiet that she thought perhaps she misunderstood his words.

  
"Wha—"

  
"I apologize for using you as a cover, but I’m afraid I’ve drawn you in now," he continued, still speaking softly only now his whispered words sent shivers across her skin that inexplicably ended in tingles of sensation in the pit of her stomach, radiating down toward her pelvis.

  
"I will explain later. I apologize, Lady Emma." He truly sounded repentant, and Emma knew she ought to feel offended, but all she felt in that moment was intrigue and the need to press her body into his.

  
He began to draw away and she felt frantic at the retreat, so she grabbed at his elbow, confusion marring her brow when he did, indeed, look as though he were angry with himself. His eyes met hers and they looked back and forth. She wondered if he were about to reveal something interesting.

  
"Damn," he muttered, a loose, rasping chuckle escaping his lips. "I’d forgotten how beautiful you are."

 

"Lord Killian, I don’t understand—"

  
"You will." He stepped away and she did the only thing she could think to stop his retreat.

  
"What if I don’t believe you?"

  
He threw his head back and laughed, and she almost wanted to hush him to prevent anyone from coming to find them hidden behind the curtain, but the sound was so carefree that she merely smiled in response.

  
He stepped closer and her body hummed at the proximity, but then she stilled completely when he leaned down and pressed his lips right next to her ear then dragged them down the smooth line of her jaw. He murmured right into her skin, the light rasp of his unkempt beard scratching delightfully at her cheek.

  
"Try something new, darling. It’s called trust. I _will_ find you later.” He pressed another kiss into her jaw. “Leave your window unlatched.”

  
"But how—"

  
Before she knew it, he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Emmaline Nolan was no prude.

As she stood in her bedchamber awaiting a man she knew only by reputation, however, she wondered at her own audacity. She had feigned a headache in order to leave early, imploring her parents to remain at Lady Aurora's birthday ball the rest of the evening. She insisted that she would be just fine as she called for the coach, its smooth, black exterior and the family's crest gleaming dully in the moonlight as it pulled to the front of the stately town home on Curzon Street.

Emma dared not leave _too_ early; her reputation was, as ever, on full display, and she feared that the wagging tongues of the _ton_ had seen her in a dark, shadowy corner with the recently returned and much speculated-about Killian Jones. Tomorrow's callers would tell; the gossipy old hags were never afraid to spread their information, false or no, but Emma would not think on that now. She was already enough the center of everyone's gossip; she had neither the time nor the inclination to ruminate on whether they would all have yet another thing of which to disapprove in the behavior of the future Duchess-in-her-own-right, Lady Emmaline Nolan.

That Emma felt the weight of the eyes of polite society on her whenever she stepped out was something to which she had long become accustomed, but it still rankled on occasions such as these, when all she wished was to enjoy being whisked into a corner by an infuriatingly handsome man. She had been aware of his presence the moment he stepped into the ballroom, though she tried to imitate the cool disinterest present in the more elegant ladies of the ton. Her nature, however, did not allow for this, and she spent much of the evening searching for his flashing eyes of blue, occasionally distracted by the identical eyes of his elder brother. Commodore Liam Jones was equally intriguing if somewhat less controversial, his elegantly cut coat and impeccably tied neckcloth speaking well for the appearance he chose to present London's elite.

Killian Jones, by contrast, was rakishly disheveled; his hair looked as though he had just finished running his fingers through it, and _his_ neckcloth sat slightly askew. Emma had to admit that his overall appearance of distracted nonchalance was extremely appealing, and she knew that within the week, the other young bucks making their way through the throngs of ladies would be imitating his devil-may-care style of dress, causing the old hens of the _ton_ to cluck their tongues and wonder at the young gentlemen of today. She found she was rather looking forward to the splash this Killian Jones seemed poised to make in society, and she wondered as the coach carried her home whether she would have any part in it.

Whatever did he mean by “I will explain later”? Explain what, exactly? Had he called her a “cover?” Was it all subterfuge for...what? Was that why he had _kissed_ her? It all seemed very interesting, and Emma always had been a curious creature. Her mother the Duchess forever despaired that Emma asked far too many questions, that it was not ladylike to show such curiosity in affairs that were not within her purview. Trouble was, Emma felt that _everything_ ought be her purview and hated the limitations posed on her by a society that did not appreciate a bold woman. Luckily for her, the Duchess never actually stifled Emma's curiosity, merely reminding her that while the Duke may tolerate his daughter's constant need for information that not many else would, much less any man.

Not that Emma sought the approbation of _anyone_ much less all of London or any one gentleman in particular. That was, perhaps, the reason she had yet to find a man she could tolerate above five minutes' worth of idle pleasantries. Was why, at twenty-two, she was no closer to finding a man she could imagine wanting to dance with more than once let alone one with whom she would share a life (and a bed). Fortunately, her father was in no rush to see her married off like so many other fathers would be. A daughter of a duke was always much sought-after on the marriage mart; a woman who would one day be duchess _suo jure_ of one of the wealthiest titles in the land? To say that Emma had been approached by all of the bachelors in England (and many in Scotland, Ireland, and even a count from Italy) would not be hyperbolic. There were times when she wished she could swim through society in disguise and see how many men would seek her hand. Whether they would wish to discuss books, or whether they appreciated being bested at pistols. Whether they would be scandalized knowing she wore undergarments from France simply because she enjoyed the way they felt. No, Emma knew such a man did not exist. So, about midway through her first season, she simply ceased attending what others thought of her and acted as she always had—politely unless goaded, and making her opinion heard when asked.

People soon learned to stop asking.

She kept company with interesting individuals, attending salons full of artists and writers, many of whom her father and mother barely approved, but they trusted her judgment as there was never a breath of scandal attached to her name (and she did not fuss when they insisted she be accompanied by Lady Ruby or Lady Elsa and a footman or two at all times). She did not do these things to attract controversy; she merely did them because she vowed to never allow what others thought of her to dictate her actions, and if she wished to discuss the Corn Laws or whether Napoleon's love for Josephine was admirable, then she would. And if Lady Von Uppity disapproved, well. Emma was sure she wouldn't be missed at the Von Uppity's musicale.

What Emma (and both her mother and father) did not foresee was that the _ton_ would actually admire the Lady Emma's singular independence, so despite the fact that London in general accepted that Emma would marry when she was good and ready, she found herself much in demand during the Season. Oh, they still clucked their tongues when she said something not usually heard from the mouths of well-bred young ladies, and they still glanced askance when her exuberant laughter filled a hall. However—older ladies continued to throw their sons at her, younger ladies sought her out when clarification was needed on certain points historical or artistic, and if her hairstyles and the cuts of her dresses were often imitated, she was sure she did not do any of it with purpose. She simply knew who she was and what she liked, and that others responded well to it (for the most part) simply made navigating the often treacherous waters of London's gossip mill all the easier.

What Emma did not realize was that her bearing, the fine tailoring from her dressmakers and her confident mien would be admired wherever she went; she was well on her way to being an Original, and she did not even realize it. That made the heads of old harridans wag with sorrow (for what man would want to saddle himself to an Original, fortune and title be damned!) and the eyes of men both young and old to follow her wherever she went.

But none of this was flowing through her mind at that moment; what she was focusing on was whether _he_ would appear, as he said he would.

Her lady's maid Ariel had been distressed that her mistress was home just after midnight; most evening, Emma was out until just before daybreak. Ariel offered hearth-warmed blankets and warm compresses for her head, flustered because it was not yet time for Emma's courses to arrive and worried because perhaps her mistress had caught cold; Emma dismissed Ariel's hand-wringing, assuring her that perhaps she had consumed too much orangeat and simply needed to retire early. It was all she could do to shoo the girl from her room before she rushed to the window and lifted the latch, testing it a bit to see whether it made noise when opened. Thankfully, it did not.

At first, she'd thought to lie in bed and read a bit, affecting nonchalance when Killian Jones had the temerity to follow through and come into her chambers. She did not dwell on why the thought of him in her room filled her with breathless anticipation, telling herself that she was merely interested in what the man was about, that perhaps she could get first-hand knowledge of what he was doing back in town and what sort of trouble he had been in the years he'd been away.

But as the minutes turned to hours and he had yet to show, Emma started to question her own perception of what had happened at the ball. Perhaps he was precisely as was suggested—an inveterate rake; a man who toyed with respectable young ladies, using his handsome face to make sport with the _ton_.

She spent so much time vilifying the scoundrel in her mind, muttering to herself and flipping through her father's copy of _Tom Jones_ , that she nearly missed the soft chuckle that came from the darkened corner of her room just as the hallway clock started chiming four.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, the scandalous (although she was certain she did not understand _why_ young ladies ought not read it) novel falling from her hands and landing with a muffled thump on the rug by her bed.

“Shh,” Killian Jones laughed, his finger coming to his lips, which of course drew her attention to his infuriating face. “Someone will come running, and then I'll be meeting your father with pistols at dawn.”

“Do not even joke of such things, my Lord,” Emma hissed, hoping it was too dark for him to see how her cheeks burned, and she was quite sure there was a sparkle in her eyes. _He actually came_ , she crowed to herself. Now _I shall get answers._

“Never, my Lady,” he said, his expression at once serious. Emma stood for lack of a better reaction, and when she felt a slight breeze, she wrapped her dressing robe more tightly about her chest.

“Ah, forgive me. I've left the window open. Clumsily done, Jones,” he mumbled, turning to slide the sash shut. He left it unlatched, which was just as well, as Emma did not know how long she had until her parents arrived home from the ball, and she knew her mother would check on her, to see how she fared. Having London's newest gossip fodder standing in her daughter's bedchamber did not seem like something the Duchess would appreciate, and it was the thought of her mother that propelled Emma into demanding an explanation.

If only her mouth obeyed the calm, rational words her mind had to offer.

“What the hell are you about, whisking eligible young ladies into alcoves and making love to them, Mr. Jones?” He raised an eyebrow at that, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, his long and lean form seeming far more comfortable than her disheveled one, and it was _her_ bedchamber they were in, after all. His ability to adapt fueled her irrational fury, and she had to resist the urge to stamp her foot in frustration.

“You haven't changed much, I see.”

“What—do not change the subject, sir. You...you danced with me—the waltz, I might add, my reputation may never recover—and then you offer mysterious words about cover stories and kiss my jaw and and and—“ Emma had worked herself into a sputtering fury, she was so confused. She hated when she acted as such; normally, her much-lauded poise took over, and if she ever acted with anything but calm and cool rationale, it was due to extreme emotion. Something about this man seemed to render her somewhat senseless, and she did not believe for one moment that it had much to do with the way he looked.

As she stared the man down, her eyes demanding explanation, she realized with much amusement and a little bit of horror that she was _attracted_ to his mysterious behavior.

He looked down at his folded arms, seeming to come to a decision as he sighed deeply. He raised one hand and pressed it to his brow, shaking his head ruefully before lifting his eyes to regard her warily. Emma stared right back, looking for hints of deception, sensing he was about to tell her either the absolute truth or a Banbury tale of such magnitude that it would take months to unravel the lies.

Somehow, she knew it would be the former.

He started and stopped many times, startling Emma with the way his face screwed up into several expressions before settling on a sort of detached chagrin. Finally, he smiled softly and looked around, noticing her slipper chair and going over to perch on the edge of it. He looked discomfited and it was amusing, seeing his tall figure sitting on such a dainty pouf, his legs bent at an awkward angle, the short chair meant for a woman unable to accommodate such long legs.

“What I am about to tell you is a closely guarded secret, one that must never leave this room.”

A thrill rushed through Emma; a delightful feeling, the kind she had whenever one of Father's new books arrived, or whenever a particularly intriguing headline in the paper caught her eye. The feeling that meant new information was forthcoming—and Emma knew that this information was of a furtive or perhaps even tawdry sort.

He took a deep breath, folded his hands together, then looked her straight in the eye.

xxxx

When Killian had whisked the Lady Emmaline into a dance that night, it was with his brother's voice in his head: _maintain your facade, Brother, but do not toy with them. These are respectable people, even if you disdain their—how did you so charmingly put it—glamorous snobbishness. Be the reprobate, be the rake. But do not become entangled, for you place anyone in danger who deigns to come near you._

And he had intended to do just that, he really had. The knowledge that Lady Emmaline would be there filled him with a smug sort of satisfaction he shoved deep in the recesses of his mind. She had always intrigued him, had always enticed him—how could she not? She was beautiful and much-admired; everyone knew of the Lady Emma, the despair of society mothers and the pride of her father, the powerful Duke of Storybrooke, the man with the ear of the King, the man rich as Croesus. The man whose power, lands, numerous holdings, and title would all one day fall on the head of his delightfully contradictory daughter.

For the Lady Emma _was_ a contradiction; at once lovely (almost comically so, for how could a woman who already had so much also carry the striking features of her mother yet the smile and height of her father?) and educated, she played the part of dutiful daughter and heiress, but there was something in her demeanor that challenged the senses. This was no simpering miss, no vapid girl on the hunt for a husband. She was bold and refined, noble and approachable. Everyone knew of her yet not many actually knew her, which of course made him want to know her better than anyone.

He really ought keep away.

And yet...

He felt her eyes land on him the moment he and his brother were announced, knowing she was watching even before he located her in the middle of a throng of admirers. There were people hanging on whatever it was she said— men laughing like sycophantic hyenas at whatever delightful quips were pouring from her mouth, women trying to both emulate her graceful bearing and looking faithfully for a slip, for something they could say to one another about how she did this or said that and isn't it all simply _shocking_ that the Lady Emma was not yet married? Yes, she was surrounded by admirers and detractors alike, and Killian knew that she was the last person with whom he ought associate. She was too high-profile, too well-known for what he intended to do.

But as he skimmed the edges of Lady Aurora's ballroom, nodding at old acquaintances and winking at scandalized matrons, he began to convince himself that perhaps the Lady Emma was _precisely_ the person he needed in order to complete his mission. After all, she knew nearly everyone, and those she did not know would be all too glad to receive an introduction to the daughter of the most powerful man in the country. Yes, indeed; the Lady Emma would be perfect, he told himself, the path he was taking about the periphery of the room leading him in a spiral toward her. Her exuberant, delightful laugh echoed over the hired musicians, as it always had, and he had to hide the grin he felt quirking his lip whenever he heard it. The only woman he'd ever known to laugh with such abandon was gone, and it warmed him that Lady Emma's laughter was borne of a life free from burden. Not all are so lucky.

Then there was a break, a moment as if from Providence. The throng surrounding her parted, and he was left with a clear path directly to her lithe form. She was beautiful and beautifully attired, her dress more after the French fashion he'd seen in Paris than the slightly longer, paler dresses of the other ladies present. She stood out; she would always stand out.

As her enjoyment faded, he saw the moment she realized that all eyes around her were turned toward him. When she lifted her gaze to where he was standing, he saw her eyes widen before narrowing slightly. He took that moment to affect his smirk, stepping toward her with a practiced swagger and an upturned eyebrow.

“My Lady,” he said, bowing low. “It has been a while.”

“My Lord,” she returned coolly, holding out her gloved hand. No rings or bracelets accented her attire, merely a simple diamond pendant, a curious piece of jewelry. He wondered idly if it were handed down or whether she had chosen it for herself. He decided it was more _her_ than anything—unusual, uncomplicated, and casually elegant— and when he lifted from his bow, he lightly bussed the back of her hand, his lips staying neither too long nor too short, his fingers barely touching hers. He did not wish to cause offense; not yet, at any rate. He knew that was unavoidable, if he were to involve himself with this particular woman.

The beginning strains of a waltz sounded, and gasps of scandalized delight puffed from the lips of many of the ladies standing about. Killian grinned; so the eye-raising waltz had made its way into the home of the Lady Aurora. All the more lucky, he.

“If you are not otherwise engaged—?”

And without awaiting an answer, he whisked her off into the dance.

They barely spoke; it was far too pleasurable holding her in his arms (at the required distance, of course; it would not do for him to be anything but proper, thereby driving her away before he had the chance to see if she would be willing to help him out). He allowed himself the brief pleasure of pressing her palm to his, of his fingers resting tantalizingly close to her back; brief bits of delight before he got down to business. He felt a stab of conscience hit him at the thought that he would be using Lady Emma's connections to suss out the information he needed, but something told him that she just might enjoy the intrigue, were he to entice her with just the right amount of information.

The entire dance, he formulated the right combination of words he would use to convince her to meet him the following day, perhaps during the fashionable hour at Hyde or even the opera the following night. Despite years spent in service to the King while on the Continent, Killian found navigating the perilous depths of society as infuriating as before, when he had merely been a carefree lieutenant, eager to make a splash in London. Having Lady Emma at his side would make his mission much easier to accomplish. He told himself this as she looked at his face, her lashes slowly fluttering as she gazed into his eyes then on to his mouth and back again. Occasionally her eyes flicked to the periphery, perhaps at those who stared, an occasional twinkle deepening them to a distracting shade of emerald. She did not smile at him, but she was not looking at him with her previously disapproving eyes, either.

Unfortunately, and much to his horror and astonishment, Killian found that dancing with Lady Emma left him wanting more than his mission allowed. She did not say much during their dance despite the opportunity, their proximity and the length of the dance affording them a certain amount of privacy in a ballroom full of London's glittering elite. But he was distracted by her, and distracted by the side glances cast by the judgmental folk. He knew on the morrow that the two of them had waltzed would be the talk of the town, and he felt concern for her reputation wash over him. Damn, he should not have made such a spectacle, but it was too late for that now.

He meant to step back, to perhaps vanish and see himself out, go to one of the seedier taverns out by the docks and reassess his battle plans, but something about the sparkle of challenge in her eyes as she thanked him for the dance with an arched eyebrow made him roar inside. He was a seasoned veteran of a terrible war, a trusted member of a small circle that answered only to King George. No woman would best him, much less the beloved future Duchess of Storybrooke.

He only meant to have a word with her, to entice her into speaking with him and helping him out, but the moment he got her alone in that alcove, he could feel _it_ , that prickle of sensation that he was being watched.

His instincts were borne of the life he had been living as a spy, and he was never wrong. He had survived all these years on both watery battlefields and on land, sussing out those who sought to reinstate the Little Tyrant and other traitors to the Crown. Killian knew that there were two things he could trust beyond all doubt, his own instincts being one and Liam the other. And right now, his instincts were telling him that someone was paying close attention to his actions. It was both irksome and thrilling; he knew this new threat was a member of the _ton_ , knew it in the way he had known his French counterpart the Crocodile was still alive; he merely had to prove it, hence his mission. But now, whoever it was had seen him bring the Lady Emma to a secluded area. She was in the middle now, whether Killian wanted her there or not.

Problem was, he _did_ want her there. He never was any good at denying self-truths.

So, Lieutenant Commander Killian Jones decided to do as was ordered: cultivate an asset with a high position in London society in order to flush out the latest threat to the security and well-being of King and country. By putting on the appearance of seducing Lady Emmaline Nolan. That last bit was not part of his orders, but his superior did say—how did he put it? _Maintain your facade, brother._ His carefully cultivated reputation as a debaucher of women certainly liked the idea of pretending to seduce Lady Emma, especially since it now brought him into her bedchamber in the dead of night.

As he told her he was about to reveal something in secrecy, a look of deep-seated skepticism and mistrust suffused her countenance. She looked him over carefully, as if she were deciding whether to take him at his word. He wondered if she thought he was merely using a line to begin the seduction she had no doubt been warned against, and that pained him a bit. He realized that he wanted her to trust him; that she didn't before the game even began irked him to no end.

“Lady Emmaline—“ he began, but he found he did not know how to proceed. How to make a woman worthy of everything trust a scoundrel who stole into her bedroom at such an hour? He realized as he stood there, floundering (and Killian Jones did not often flounder), that he really was a right bastard for drawing her into his web of intrigue. That thought alone near made him turn around and make a swift exit. His face screwed up in thought, trying to determine exactly what to say, exactly how to say, “Emma, I am a spy,” without it sounding like a contrived line of seduction. She was far too intelligent to see through any ruse, and he realized she must know that he knew that, so he decided to try that exact phrase.

“You may as well call me 'Emma,' Mr. Jones, seeing how you are one of three people who has ever seen me attired thus,” she said dryly, and it made him laugh. He suddenly wondered who the third person was—her maid, he decided. The knowledge made him burn, and a fierce need to be the only other person who would see her this way shook him with a force unexpected.

A warning bell sounded far-off in his head, but he chose to ignore it. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that.

He grinned to hide his discomfiture, suppressing the need to recover his equilibrium with a quip or some form of blatant innuendo as was his normal behavior, but he knew that in order for her to trust him in this moment, he would have to be both forthright and as least aggravating as possible. He pushed off the wall and approached her at a slow pace, not wishing to frighten her off but also hoping she would not shy from his advance. There was no intent in it; he merely wished her to see his eyes.

He came to just within arms' distance from her, stopping and coming to stillness as she eyed him warily. He took a fortifying breath and exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, willing her to see the truth.

“I am a spy, Emma.”

She merely blinked once, her expression utterly unreadable. He wondered if she was using the time-honored interrogation technique of saying nothing and allowing the other party to fill the space with more information. He rather hoped so; the idea of any noblewoman much less this one having the ability to do so filled him with an odd sense of pride that she would use the technique on he, the unknown quantity. He took another breath and continued, intent on making her see the truth in his explanation.

“I am unable to give you certain details at this time, but let us say that I have _not_ spent the last few years in idleness and dissipation on the Continent. Well,” he laughed dryly, slightly uncomfortable thinking about the company he'd kept in service to the Crown, “some of the time, perhaps. Mostly, I was helping find the last of Napoleon's supporters, pretending to be an indolent gentleman and reporting back to my superiors. I sort of fell into it during the war, and I was in the middle before I realized I'd even begun. I...enjoyed it. I do still. And now there are rumbles of a new threat, a contingency of players seeking to undermine the King and perhaps rally some of the old Napoleonites or perhaps simply weaken the Crown. My few informants' collective information leads me to believe that the threat is far too close to home for comfort. I haven't been in London overmuch these last few years, Emma. I do not know who can be trusted anymore. What I need is a person who can help me navigate through Town until I can find my bearings once again.” He realized he had been rambling and that it was much information to absorb at once, but to her credit, Emma seemed able to follow along quite nicely.

“You are saying that there is a traitor in the upper levels of English society.”

“Aye. Er—yes, milady.”

“I told you to call me Emma,” she said, a soft smile curling her lips. Then she arched her brow and gave him a pointed look. “In private. I fear if anyone heard you address me so informally that rumor would have us all but engaged before month's end.”

“About that,” he said slowly, a humorless smile tickling his mouth. “I—that is—if you are—“ Damn. He was usually so much better with eloquence. What was it about Lady Emmaline Nolan that had him at sixes and sevens?

“Killian,” she laughed, breaching the distance between them and putting her hand on his arm for a mere moment, but that small moment—when she closed the gap between them— he felt a surge of triumph. He did not need to know her very well to understand that if she was wary of him for even a moment, he would not be allowed to stand before her. That she allowed him to remain and then touched his arm in assurance? To him, that said it all. She believed him.

“Killian,” she repeated, her voice somewhat softer, bringing his errant thoughts back to her. “Simply say what it is you want from me.” Her eyes were luminous; when she moved even closer, it brought her face into a patch of moonlight streaming from the window. He had been annoyed that the moon was so bright this night because it made his sneaking in and out of her room that much harder, but now he found he could no longer find fault when it made her face even more incandescent and lovely in its light.

He sighed and smiled, grateful that she was not the sort of woman bound by propriety and scandalized by strange men in her bedchambers at night. He then smirked; he knew it was a smirk but he was unable to help it; he sort of wished for her to feel scandalized when he told her exactly what it was he wanted from her. Something about the soft intelligence in her eyes and the challenge inherent in her expectantly raised eyebrows in turn made him wish to challenge, to stretch her imagination and perhaps put a little shock in her expression.

“I need you to allow me to court you.” He was not disappointed; her eyes widened at that, but she did not step back, did not remove her hand from his arm. In fact, she squeezed his wrist imperceptibly, but enough that he felt it. “I need a guide, and many of my old friends were either lost in the war,” and he had to swallow at that, brief and terrible images of cannon fire and charges led with bayonets flashing through his mind, “or we have grown too far apart. I can reacquaint myself with those remaining, of course, but I do believe my job would be much simpler and faster were I to be seen with a respectable and eligible young lady to squire about.” There, that did not sound too desperate, he hoped. Then he realized that that was the perfect word to describe what he was feeling in that moment: desperate. He _desperately_ wanted her to go along with it.

“I see.”

He nearly huffed in annoyance. All that, and _that_ was the response he was to receive?

“You understand that no one will believe it for one moment.”

“I—whyever not?” he asked, feeling a sense of mild effrontery. “I have it on good authority that I am both charming _and_ dashing. What young lady wouldn't want to be seen on my arm? I—“

“No,” she laughed, squeezing his arm again only this time in amusement. “You must not know, what with your having been not in England all this time, but you see...I am considered something of an anomaly.” When he felt confusion mar his features, she seemed to gather her thoughts a moment, as if trying to decide how to explain herself. “I am _The_ Catch, Killian.” She rolled her eyes at that, even as he felt a slight thrill at how she said his name, a gentle curling of it rolling off her tongue. “Everyone throws their daughters at me, hoping some of my so-called suitors will bounce off of me and onto them. It's...well, it's damned annoying.” He grinned at the invective, delighted that she let her guard down around him enough to curse.

“And _why_ would no one believe it for one moment?”

“Because!” she huffed, finally removing her hand from him. She crossed her arms and gave him a defiant glare. “I am unattainable, so they say. Because a woman's only function is to get married, of course,” she finished on a grumble.

“All the more reason why it will work,” he smiled, happy that it would be that easy.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, and he had to put his finger to his lips to quieten her escalating volume. “What do you mean?” she repeated, much softer this time, looking at the door furtively and pausing to hear if anyone came running. When no one did, she turned back to his grinning face.

“You are the most talked-about young lady in the _ton_ ,” he said with patience, hoping she would see his meaning. “And I am already considered something of a rake, as you so charmingly reminded me. What better cover story for me than to be the man who brings _you_ up to scratch?” He smirked with satisfaction at the look of effrontery that passed over her face.

“You— _you_!” she sputtered, but just as quickly as her ire was raised, her face dropped into a thoughtful expression. “You,” she said once again. “Are correct. Although I doubt anyone will apply that turn of phrase to me, being a woman and all. You're the one being brought up to scratch, Mr. Jones. The vile seducer of women and all that. Oh,” she suddenly exclaimed, her hand going to her mouth. “They will think you are trying to seduce me!”

“That's the game, yes,” he said, nodding into another smirk. “They will all be so preoccupied wondering what liberties you have allowed, and my quarry will simply think I am back in town to marry at the orders of my father. At least, that is the rumor I shall have spread about: Killian Jones must marry on threat of disinheritance. Hopefully, the traitorous blackguard will not focus too much on me and my wooing, and will slip up enough for me to catch him.” He folded his arms, mimicking her, certain that his explanation to her (and himself) was satisfactory. It was all of it nothing more than a ruse.

“Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” she said, shifting from one foot to another. He wondered at that, whether she was fidgeting as some sort of quirk or whether he put her ill-at-ease.

After a brief pause, she gave him another clipped nod and spoke. “All right, my Lord. You have yourself a woman to grace your arm. I am prepared to do my part for King and Country.”

Killian stared into her eyes, feeling triumph and a sense of euphoria rush through him. She trusted him, and she would allow this near-comical set of circumstances to see fruition. A false courtship with the most eligible lady in the land. How absurd, and yet how wonderful.

“You may come to regret your decision, my lady,” he told her, holding his hand out to shake on it. It was not the sort of mannerism one did with a lady, but Killian sensed, somehow, that she would appreciate it all the same, would be far more accepting of the situation were he to treat her on equal footing in his scheme. When she smiled at him, there was a beaming twinkle of approval in her eyes, and he knew he had done the right thing in offering the masculine way to seal a deal.

As he took her hand and shook it firmly, he was near shocked by the coolness of her skin. It truly hit him then, that the Lady Emmaline was standing in her night clothes and he in her private quarters. Oh, he had been rather aware of the impropriety the entire time, but it wasn't until he felt her bare palm in his that he allowed the details of the situation to sink in. How her hair not pinned up, a loose braid lying over her shoulder and unable to catch the wisps of hair floating about her face. How she wore no stockings, her toes peeking out from the hem of her nightdress and dressing gown. Again, the thought that he wanted no one else to ever see her thus crossed his mind, followed immediately by his deeper, more practical voice telling him that one day she would marry, and that her husband would surely see this, and that man would certainly not be him. He did not deserve such a diamond of the first water, and he never would. He almost hated that she would see him pretending to court her, would see the way he would act around other people, would know that he was nothing more than a man who lied very, terribly well, a man who all and sundry regarded as a cavalier young buck and a rakehell of the worst sort.

He shook those dark thoughts aside, deciding he could berate himself once he left Emma all alone, could dwell on how ruined her reputation would be once he was done with her at a later date. For now, he decided to allow himself the rare pleasure of doing exactly what he wanted: talking alone with a woman he had thought of often over the years, a woman far too gracious and good for a man such as he. A woman whom he hoped never learned of his more nefarious dealings during the war and the confusing, horrible time afterward. He was lucky to have survived this far, and he only prayed he could continue to survive now. That he got to do so with such a woman at his side seemed almost too fortunate for the likes of him, but he decided not to question her decision to help him, instead accepting it with a smile (or a smirk).

He bowed low once he let her hand go, keeping his eyes away from the damned distracting sight of her toes which were now curling into the rug beneath them, as if they could hide amongst the twirls and curlicues of the ivy woven into the fabric.

As he stood upright again, his eyes sought hers as if drawn to them by strings. He saw no fear, no trepidation; only a slight caution and a widened shine that he could not interpret.

“Then let us begin. I shall call on you tomorrow,” he promised, taking a step backward.

“You and perhaps two dozen others,” she muttered before smiling, a close-lipped, soft thing.

“Then I shall have to endeavor to make an impression,” he said with a sly grin. She opened her mouth to retort; he pivoted neatly before she could get in the last gibe and strode over to the window with purpose. Without another word (and suppressing the very strong urge to glance at her over his shoulder), Killian slid it open and made his way out into the hazy purple of the night, the sun nearly ready to put in an appearance for the day.

“Hmm,” Lady Emma hummed thoughtfully before stepping forward to shut the window. She looked in vain for his figure stealing off into the lightening dark, but he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo, if you have an idea for a follow-up to this, lemme know. like i said, this isn't really a multi-chaptered, planned story; just something i really wanted to write. i'm totally open to suggestions so i can write more! and thank you for reading, you're a peach.

**Author's Note:**

> hey, thanks for reading! this isn't really a multi-chaptered story, but i hope to write more. let me know over on tumblr if you have ideas for another follow-up (i'm this-too-too-sullied-flesh).


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